


==>Dave: Take Son Camping

by Quilly



Series: Married with Grubs [9]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Carry On My Wayward Son, F/M, Gen, Phase Two, and his son will have to eat his body to survive, in which dave is going to die in the woods, incredibly self-indulgent babyfic, of the Married with Grubs event, part of the Sherlockbound/Fun with Dirk and Jane universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:41:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider and your son is definitely trying to kill you. </p>
<p>(Part of the Married with Grubs event for the Sherlockbound/Life with Dirk and Jane series. Phase Two: Childhood, 3/5)</p>
            </blockquote>





	==>Dave: Take Son Camping

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! This is an event going on at the Sherlockbound askblog (asksherlockbound.tumblr.com, check the sidebar for the Married with Grubs button) and I'm moving the drabbles over to here for other people to access, so voila! This is the third of five in Phase Two: Childhood of that event! If you're curious about what Sherlockbound/Life with Dirk and Jane is, check my page for the series Life with Dirk and Jane!
> 
> Enjoy!

Your name is Dave Strider and you are going to die out here.

 

You are slathered with every protective cream and spray you could get your hands on, you are wearing your socks pulled up to your knees, a fishing hat, and your shades, because yeah _right_ are you going without your shades out here in the wilderness. On your back is a pack the size of a Super Wal-Mart and carrying about as much stuff. Why are you dressed like every dorky dad ever?

The answer to that is significantly ahead of you on the trail and dragging you towards a campsite far away from cable TV, wifi, showers, and mini-bars.

You love that Dean has his own thing that he likes to do. You carry him inside from where he falls asleep in the treehouse nearly every night. You listen to him as he rambles about every animal and plant he sees and you get him the big illustrated books from the bookstore. You figured, hey, the kid has a hobby, maybe it’ll keep him out of your hair for a little while.

You don’t know where you went so wrong. You sit down on a stump and await death. Farewell, dear sweet precious Dean. He’s going to have to eat your body for sustenance before going to live amongst the bears. Carry on, my wayward son.

“Dad!” Dean calls from behind a tree a few yards away. “The campsite’s just a little bit further!”

You wave, heave yourself upwards, and stagger further along. Your body is too drenched in chemicals for the kid to eat safely anyway.

(Would serve him right if he mutated and grew, like, wings or something. Rotten little dude used his awful puppy-dog eyes and his mother’s infallible logic to drag you out here.)

He continues to lie to you when he says it’s just a little further along, but you suppose you are exaggerating, because when you check your watch it’s barely been ten minutes from the time you sat down to the time you fall flat on your back at the campsite and refuse to move. Dean laughs and nudges your torso.

“Come on, Dad, we’ve gotta get set up! It says so in my manual!”

Whoever invented Grub Scouts needs to be kicked vigorously in the shins.

You drag yourself upright, roll off your pack, and sort of kick it towards Dean. He giggles again.

“Daaaaad!”

Alright. Time to actually get up and be the adult here, Strider. You drag yourself further upright.

Setting up the tent is hard, but you practiced this in the backyard while Terezi licked the directions into oblivion, so you think by the time it’s fully erected that if it rains you probably won’t be washed back down the hill. Building a fire is less hard, because you more or less let Dean take care of it after helping him find kindling. You found five sticks. You have done your part.

Dean sort of arranges the sticks, then abandons the attempt. You look down on it and feel despair deep in your soul.

“Aren’t—aren’t we gonna fire this thing up, sport?” you say. “I’m hungry.”

“I’ve gotta tie some knots first,” Dean says, consulting his well-worn Grub Scout manual. “And identify at least three poisonous plants…and find some constellations!”

You rub the back of your neck. Ow. Definitely sunburned. “Well…let’s get started. What knots?”

“I tied a few setting up the tent,” Dean grins, “but I need to tie a square knot now!”

“Okay, so tie a square knot.” You wipe a bead of sweat from beneath your eye.

“I forgot the extra rope,” he says. You take off your shoe, take out the lace, and toss it at him.

“Voila. Rope. Have at it.”

He gives you a look, then shakes his head and starts fiddling with it. After a few minutes, during which you stretch your toes and ignore your blisters, he shows it to you.

“Is this right?”

“Check the book,” you say. He passes it to you instead. You peer at the illustration, then at the tangle of shoelace in his hands, back again, and nod.

“Nailed it.”

He smiles. “Sign it off for me!”

“You betcha.” You tug out the pen shoved in the back pages and scribble next to the picture. “Alright, what’s next?”

Now that you can breathe, you’re a little more like the supportive father you’d like to be most days.

“Now the fire!” he says, and you grin.

“Finally. I’m starved.”

“I just need the flint and steel I brought,” Dean says, and pats down his pockets. His face falls, and he runs toward his pack, which you notice is significantly lighter than yours (but, then, he wasn’t carrying the tent and both sleeping bags). He rifles through it, then looks at you, face guilty.

“You forgot the flint,” you say, and he nods. “I think I’ve got a lighter in my bag somewhere.”

Thank gog for your wonderful wife. She packed your lighter, alright, and a package of easy fire-starters. In no time there’s a good fire going.

“Now hot dogs,” you say, and he scrambles for the bags again. “You got the sticks?”

You are far too used to that guilty face of his more than you should be. You slap your forehead.

“No to both?” you say tiredly. He nods.

“But I think Mom packed marshmallows,” he says. Once again, props to a higher power that gave you a world with TZ in it.

You and your li’l mountain man are gonna get so sick and throw up. _Worth it._

You show Dean how to roast a perfect marshmallow, drop about three in the process, and have him point out the poison ivy, poison sumac, and Polk berry plants ringing the campsite in the interim of molten sugary goodness. The sun is starting to go down and although you are deeply suspicious of the beady bright eyes winking at you from the treetops, you consent to listen to Dean stumble his way through a couple ghost stories and act spooked when you’re supposed to.

You do not get sick, though you are full to the brim with marshmallows, and you help him spread out the sleeping bags and look up at the stars. There’s…a lot. You’ve heard stories about the country and the brightness of the sky, but _wow_ that’s a _lot_ of stars.

“There’s the Big Dipper,” Dean says, and you follow his finger and pretend to see what he’s seeing. “And Orion. And Libra!” He looks at you. “Libra, like Mom’s hatchsign!”

You shift around, dig out a rock from beneath you, and settle back in. “You sure are smart, li’l man.”

He looks back up, then back at you, and says, “Thanks for coming with me, Dad.”

Your heart kinda deflates. “No prob, Dean.”

He yawns. “We gotta put the fire out now,” he says sleepily. “Don’t want to accidentally burn up in the middle of the night.”

Sound words. You dig out an extra water bottle and pour it over the embers, then kick a bunch of dirt on it. You mighta been flipping through Dean’s book while he made a mess with his marshmallows. By the time you’re done Dean is just about out, so you drag your sleeping bag inside the tent and pick him up to carry him inside. He shifts around, blinks a couple times, but starts snoring as soon as you set him down. You watch him for a minute, tousled dark blond hair and freckles and chubby cheeks, and grin.

“’Night, Dean.”

“’Night, Daddy,” comes the sleepy reply.

You are both stiff and sore the next morning, and you definitely throw up on the way back down the hill, but you don’t think you forgot anything and you didn’t get eaten by the bears during the night, so on the whole you consider that a win.

You wonder if you can get Terezi to rub ointment on your bug bites a little later. Things itch like crazy and you can’t quite reach them. Though you might just forget about them for a little bit while you listen to Dean tell his mother _all_ about what happened at your camping trip.

“You survived,” Terezi teases as she holds you down and slaps a handful of freezing-cold aloe on your sunburned neck.

“I survived,” you grunt as she starts working it in. “Next time, you’re taking him camping.”

“Nay, nay,” she says, and lays a long lick down the side of your face. “That’s a father’s privilege, Dave.”

Lucky you. She kisses your ear and you sigh.

Well, yeah. Lucky you, indeed.


End file.
